


Fresco

by Flappybirdmom



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asgore is a Good Dad, Autistic Chara, Autistic Frisk, Autistic Papyrus (heavily implied), Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Misgendering, Non-Binary Chara, Non-Binary Frisk, Non-Verbal Frisk, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Swearing, Transphobia, and for that I ask you to forgive me, just about every other -ism and -phobia too, kids trying their best, mentions of Autism Speaks, this became a lot heavier than I anticipated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-12 22:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10500450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flappybirdmom/pseuds/Flappybirdmom
Summary: The day of your first meeting with the new Boss Human has arrived.No one is happy with this





	

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively: 'The One Where the Head Cheeto Gets Rekt by a Goat'
> 
> This started off as something cathartic, in honour of World Autism Awareness Day (#RedInstead!) .It turned into one of the heaviest fics I've ever written. 
> 
> I can promise you a soft and peaceful ending, at least....
> 
> * * *

  
  


“It’s…not you.” 

Chara’s voice emanates from just a few inches to your right. You watch their reflection purse its lips, before they turn the force of their dislike back towards the screen in their hands.

You let out a quiet sigh of agreement, plucking the new, starched cuffs of the button-down that your father bought especially for this occasion. There’s not a stripe in sight.  
You shouldn’t let that bother you. But it does.

Gnawing your lip, you edge closer to your sibling. On Chara’s screen, the naked child under their control rams a floating knife into the bulbous flesh of a gigantic, high-heeled foot.

Chara lets out a little giggle as the room is showered in blood and internal organs. You’re not entirely sure that they should be playing this game, no matter how many times they’ve told you it’s cathartic.

They look back towards you, still rosy cheeked and beaming from the rush. “Do you have everything you need?”

You incline your head, and with a tiny smile of your own, you sign _“Item?”_

One by one, they pat each of your pockets. “Phone. Torn Notepad. That pen of Azzy’s that writes in rainbow colours. Squishy Moldbygg…” They reach over to finger the cord half-hidden by your shirt collar. “Cinnamon Scent Vial Necklace…Chocolate…”

_“Chocolate?”_  
“Oh? It must not be in your inventory yet.” They reach into their own pocket to retrieve a small slab. “Where you’re going, you might lose some HP.”

Your reply is a morose hum as you store it away. Your reflection still looks small and out of place in what Chara had disgustedly dubbed ‘Businesswear.’ This armour will offer you very little protection, despite all the equipment at your disposal.  
You really could use some validation.

_“Check?”_

“Hmm.” They pace in a slow circle around you, never catching your eye, but wearing a grin that exudes unmistakable warmth. 

**“Frisk. HP: 20. ATK: 12. DEF: 10. INV: 6 .The future of humans and monsters.”**

Hearing their approval is somehow enough to fill you with determination. You feel it flooding your body, a torrent of yellow sparkles.

Your sibling stands opposite you, eyebrow raised. You sorely want to envelop them in a hug. But you’re well aware of how bad it makes Chara feel. Instead, you smile as wide as you are able-almost as broadly as they can.

_“Thank you.”_

They’re silent for a moment. Unsure, perhaps, of how to respond. When they grip your wrist without any prompting, it doesn’t hurt.  
Not even when their nails make little white crescents in your skin. 

“Come on. We should let Mr. Dad Guy know you’re ready for your encounter with the Hellspawn Overlord.”

They tug you down the hallway by your detestable sleeve. It’s rather rougher than having your hand in your mother or father’s soft grasp, but the feeling is so irrefutably _Chara_ , so intense and _real_ , that you make no move to complain.

In a blur, the two of you arrive in the soft green of your father’s living room. Chara claims the seat beside Asriel at once. Your brother tears his eyes away from the television, where two polymorphic sentient rocks are in the midst of a complicated dance routine.

“Oh, wow. You look…err…really different, Frisk.”

“Good different, right?” Chara fixes Asriel with a meaningful sort of stare, dropping the portable console onto the coffee table with an unceremonious thud.

“Um…yes…I mean, it…it suits you…” he murmurs, a slight frown crossing his face as he spots their choice in game. “But…why can’t you just wear what you wore last time?”

“It’s just some gross human thing, Azzy.” Chara curls their lip. “There’s been a change in management up at the top, and now it’s not okay to turn up in ballet shoes and a cowboy hat.”  
“That…doesn’t really make much sense.” He glances over at you as you hover in the doorway.

All you want to do right now is sandwich yourself between your siblings and get lost in the world of your favourite cartoon. But you mustn’t do that, lest you crumple your smart clothes and arrive late. And what a poor impression that would make of the best family you could ever wish for.

Chara looks ever so satisfied. “See, Frisk? All of us here are on your side. You’d better give Fuckface Von Clownstick a lesson in respect. Or better yet, get Dadsgore to whip out his trident.”

Asriel muffles laughter behind his paw. It tails off as a rumbling voice floats down the hallway.

“Oh, dear…I do hope that will not be necessary. I am somewhat out of practice, after all.”

You find yourself smiling as the familiar shadow falls across you. Once, the horned figure had filled you with a resigned dread. Now, your fingers thread on instinct through Asgore’s strawberry blond mane as he encircles you with broad arms that somehow still brim with softness.  
“Good evening, my children.” He straightens, setting you back down on the carpet. “I trust you two shall busy yourselves whilst the two of us attend to the current political climate?”

Asriel gives him a quiet nod, his attention already halfway back to the television. Chara’s eyes remain fixed upon the former king’s presence beside you. 

“I much prefer your robes, Mr. Dad Guy.” They narrow their eyes at the sight of the tent-like expanse of plum wool and cashmere. Your hand strays to catch a small fragment of his jacket between your fingers. It’s not entirely dissimilar to the jumper you’re longing to slip into.

“As do I, my child.” Asgore heaves a sigh, combing his clawed fingers through his beard in an effort to tame it. “However, it is prudent that I adhere to the same customs that the incumbent ruler of the Surface does, so as to present to him a favourable and pleasant image of monsters.”

“It’ll never work.” Chara huffs. “Why could the last guy not stay in charge for another four years? Nobody would mind that much. Not even me.”

_“That must be the highest compliment you’ve ever given a human, Chara.”_

“I seem to recall that I’m ever so nice to _you_ , Frisk.” Your sibling shoots back. “Despite the fact that you belong to the species I despise with every fibre of my being.”

“Sssshhh!” Asriel hisses, leaning closer to the television. “I haven’t seen this episode yet!”

“Oh? Is this the one where he fuses with A-“

Their question is cut short by off-key warbling from your brother as he clamps his hands to his ears.

“I do believe that is our cue to leave.” Asgore murmurs so only you can hear, his face splitting into a smile as he takes you by the hand. “With any luck, our endeavours this evening will be as successful as our previous conference.”

You’re content to walk beside your father, swathed in all the safety he exudes. The sight of your siblings walloping each other across the head with the sofa cushions as you leave the house is enough to make you forget your apprehension.

Almost.

  


* * *

  
  


“Are you okay, my child?” Asgore’s hand is a wonderful weight on your shoulder, something very different to the stimulation your siblings can provide. “You are not experiencing any motion-sickness?”

You assuage his worries with a shake of your head. You’re used to riding in a limousine by now-it’s how you’re taken to all ambassadorial functions, after all. 

On the outside, everything appears the same as before. The gentle lights overhead that you can alter to shift between the colours you like. The inevitable chuckle that was coaxed out of you as your father once again resorted to opening the sunroof in order to make space for his magnificent horns. The quiet tinkling of glasses brushing against each other in the cabinet, sounding for all the world like a distant music box.

Before, your journeys were filled with warmth. It would not be uncommon for you to be driven to and fro by an overjoyed Papyrus, who would never fail to accompany the quiet ambience with endless chatter and much-appreciated encouragement. And sometimes, you would discover Sans, inexplicably asleep on the back seat, armed to the teeth with political jokes that you often didn’t quite understand, but Asgore would quiver with dignified laughter beside you, and-

The air here is cold and silent. It took everything in you to craft a look of excitement when you saw your favourite driver replaced by a grey man, in a grey suit. You watch the news, of course, but you weren’t expecting this level of upheaval to happen with such immediate effect. And after everything they’ve been through, monsters don’t any more of that.

Your father presses a cup of sweet golden flower tea into your hands the moment they begin to shake.

It’s a far cry from the tea he brews with such care in the teapot at home, but still, you let the rising curls of steam warm your fingers and cheeks. But your heart still squirms against your ribcage, as though it’s dodging bullets inside you. You’re struck by the urge to help yourself to the chocolate that sits snug in your pocket.  
No, you shouldn’t do that. There are far more imposing things to come.

Instead, you pull out your phone, hand brushing across the soft rubber Moldbygg nestled around it. You scroll through your messages, mostly uncaptioned photos, surreptitiously snapped by Chara, of Asriel’s gobsmacked reaction to the cartoon on the television.

The other half comprise of garbled capital letters, and blurry selfies of a tousled-looking Asriel, halfway between shock and tears. Beneath one such image, the caption reads

**[I hOPE YoU’Re hAPPy. I dOn’T KnoW iF I’ll eVEr Get oVeR THIs]**

Asgore stifles laughter behind his hand when you show him the dishevelled picture of the prince of all monsters, and type out a reply.

**[I’m so glad we introduced you to human cartoons <3]**

  


* * *

  
  


You’ve told yourself you’re used to the roar of reporters, and lights blazing across your vision like shooting stars.  
But the usual crowd that clusters around your car as you’re ushered out all have dour faces, regarding you with identical gazes of what looks like mistrust before they turn their flashbulbs on you and your father.

They seem to take a far greater time cataloguing your outfit than last time. 

Before, the man in charge would have been out here waiting for you. He’d be giving Asgore’s hand an eager shake, whilst his nice wife complimented your fashion sense, whether you arrived in a tutu, that funny bandanna with abs drawn all over it, or just your beloved jumper. No matter what felt right against your skin, she welcomed you inside with open arms. 

Thinking back to those occasions brings a smile to your face. It sits there long enough for the press to snap a thousand pictures. 

You chance a glance up at Asgore, who stands beside you, surveying the small crowd with his usual expression of mild surprise. He doesn’t falter when you lean closer to his solid warmth. Behind your back, you feel his paw come to rest across your shoulders, with just the perfect sort of pressure you can feel beneath your awful clothes.

Your quiet hum of gratitude is swallowed up by a chorus of cheers as the glass doors in front of you swing open. A figure descends the velvet-covered steps. If you weren’t wearing such uncomfortable shoes, you could very well spend minutes at a time wiggling your toes on the red carpet.

He’s flanked by a pair of broad-shouldered men, in businesswear and dark glasses. For a moment, you’re filled with uncertainty. The former occupant of this residence never felt the need to be escorted by his very own Royal Guard, not even in the presence of the former king of all monsters. If you were to have known, you would have enlisted Undyne’s help. 

Still. You stand up straight as he approaches, your mouth twitching back into its usual, ever so neutral flat line.

And within moments, you’re looking into the eyes of the king of all humans.

The man’s stare is not full of sorrow, like your father’s had been before you relieved him of his impossible situation. The eyes he fixes you with are cold. Little glass marbles set into uncooked dough. Chara had a lot of fun prodding holes into the soft sheet your mother had rolled out for the three of you the other day. 

You have to squeeze your eyes shut to erase the image that’s been put in your head. The one where their especially pointy, pokey finger makes yawning pits in the lined flesh in front of you.

When you open them, his wizened lips have stretched out into a chasm. You stand your ground, digging your soles into the floor as he bares his teeth at Asgore.

You pat the pocket where you’ve stashed the torn notebook. It may be used for logging your next great adventure now, but it’s still close to your favoured hand. Just in case.

From the corner of your eye, you watch your father, prepared for the gleaming prongs of a trident to emerge from thin air. And yet, Asgore produces nothing but what you recognise as a smile, and extends a hand that is not balled into a fist, but a flat open palm. 

And it makes you wonder…perhaps this man, a Boss Human if ever you saw one…Perhaps he means no harm by the sneer on his face.  
After all, you have friends who never stop smiling. It stands to reason that beneath the king of all humans’ skin is a skeleton with a jaw set into a perpetual grimace. 

“Believe me!” he exclaims, in a voice loud enough for the clustered reporters to hear. “I am happy to see you. Very, very happy to be having this discussion!”

He never once looks at you. He’s still staring Asgore down. 

Though he barely reaches your father’s waist, you can feel just how much space he takes up. It is not at all comfortable.

“It is nice to return here again.” Asgore replies in a mild voice. “I do hope the flowers in the rear gardens are being as well-kept as they were on our last visit?”

For a moment, the king of all humans looks bewildered. “I like flowers.” He blurts. “I really, really like them.”

Your father gives him a slow, approving nod, his own face rife with puzzlement. “That is good news. Perhaps we shall get along.” 

The two of you share a private glance. You raise a sceptical eyebrow at his sheepish smile. 

“I do not believe you have had the pleasure of meeting our ambassador?” You watch his face fall ever so slightly as his counterpart looks straight over your head and begins peering either side of his statuesque frame.

He gives you the gentlest of pushes to the forefront. In an instant, you’re vulnerable. Not even your invincibility frames will save you now.  
“This is Frisk, the saviour of the Underground, and my adopted child.” You feel the warmth of his gaze, his pride, against your back. “I shall be present as their interpreter, and an historical reference point.”

The man’s marble eyes bulge, as though they could go rolling across the ground at any moment. “That’s not an ambassador. That’s just a little girl!”

Somewhere in the darkness of your chest cavity, your soul falters. His words hit you with a familiar, dull sort of thud, shaving off precious HP with a single blow.  
It isn’t as if this hasn’t happened before. But…after the last Boss Humans you met were so conscientious, so mindful to respect your identity, you could not help but hope their successors would follow suit.

If Chara was in your shoes, as they were quite literally not so long ago, they would have constructed a clever remark for their seething resentment to hide behind.  
A small stab of guilt surges through you, as you fail to raise a hand in your own defence. If they could see you now, you just know they’d be so…let down, after everything you’ve been through together.

It’s selfish of you, you’re sure, to want someone to help fight your battles. All the same, you can’t help but be flooded with relief when your father takes a step closer to you, and responds on your behalf.

“I selected Frisk for this role myself, owing to their extraordinary empathy for our two races.” Asgore’s eyes hold no anger, only an immense wave of disappointment. The kind that makes it almost unbearable to meet his gaze. 

“ _They_ ” his words are painted in the same green as the walls in his living room as they wash over you “hold such a respect for all monsters, no matter how grave our past misdeeds, that it was inevitable that they would be the one to bridge the age-old gap between us. Despite their age, they are worthy of being listened to, just as much as you or I.”

Your hands have grown warm in his ever-present grasp. You wiggle them out from between his paws for a moment, and he turns towards you, searching, almost, for your approval. 

_“Thanks, Dad.”_

His eyes crinkle at the edges, just like Toriel’s do when she looks upon you with her velveteen smile. It isn’t often that he has to use his King Voice, but you’re grateful he’d retrieve it for something as small as your own validation. 

The king of all humans looks a tiny bit flustered. But then again, you suppose you might be, if an eight foot tall, solidly-built goat man had all but boomed at you, right in front of your own house, and a crowd of journalists had caught every word.

“Yes!” he replies, in his own approximation of a commanding tone. His mass of hay-like hair whipping around in the wind as he speaks is more than a little bit of a detractor. “It is important! Really, really important to be listened to! I hope we’ll be doing a whole lot of listening to each other during this discussion!”

“It is not a beautiful day outside.” Asgore observes, loud enough to disguise your snickering into your hand. He tugs a stray leaf from his beard with a pensive grin. “Perhaps now would be the time to relocate to the conference room?”

“Uh…yeah…” the Boss Human mumbles, turning towards the doors in a slight daze. You weren’t quite expecting the power of suggestion to be such a potent force. An observation worthy of a place in your notebook, maybe?

“How are you feeling now, Frisk?” your father whispers as he falls into step behind the dark-suited trio.

With a smile, you raise your hand level to your temple, bending your fingers into a swift, claw-like motion.

_“Determined.”_   


* * *

  
  


The torn notebook lies open in front of you, perfect for riffling through with one hand, whilst the other pets the quivering fronds of the squishy Moldbygg you’ve retrieved from your pocket.

Asgore sits beside you, a trifle too large for the glossy walnut table you’ve been directed to. You catch a glimpse of his reflected face, soft with fond amusement as you show him how to make the rainbow-coloured flower you’ve drawn in the corner of the paper grow by skimming through the pages.

After you’d shown him your expertise in animation, Asriel had begged you to help him put together an origin comic for one of his countless original characters, with proper story arcs and everything. So far, _The Super Cool Amazing Adventures of the God of Hyperdeath_ has three full colour pages, supplemented by your brother’s neon-bright backgrounds, and dialogue crafted by Chara’s unique brand of wit.

All in all, it’s pretty great.

Voices rumble around you, heralding the arrival of your fellow delegates. These are a different set from last time. You watch in silence from your seat as they file into the conference room, all in identical businesswear, with faces you cannot hope to memorise.

It does not escape your notice how their eyes slide from your father and onto you, not with respect, but….something very different from that. 

As they take their seats in some sort of rehearsed ritual, it occurs to you that your skin is the darkest of everyone here. You are completely surrounded by old white people. Any thoughts you had of getting Chara to accompany you on the next meeting are instantly put to rest. 

You suppose you should count your blessings that Asgore was still the king of all monsters when you left the Underground. He’s about as close as monsters can come to resembling the most important members of human society.

And you can think of reasons why every other monster in your circle of friends and loved ones would have trouble gleaning the respect they deserve from the row of interchangeable wrinkled faces that peer at how you twirl your hair between your fingers again and again, scowling amongst themselves.

With a sigh, you hide your hands beneath the table, swinging your legs back and forth in your seat. You aren’t entirely sure what you’ve done wrong, but people seem to get so unhappy when they see you do something as innocuous as moving.

A private grin slips onto your face as you imagine how horrified they would be if Chara showed up in your stead, trailing white lines down their face, or gnawing their fingers hard enough for blood to well up in their cuticles. Rocking, and snarling, and tearing up paper into tiny little pieces, being so unapologetically autistic that the two of you would shake with laughter on the way home.

The king of all humans is the last to enter the conference room. Several of his advisors stand and applaud. Asgore remains in his seat, his face open, but you spot a faint hint of disconcertion in his soft features.

“It’s a pleasure to be here.” The man’s voice fills the room, pressing down against your eardrums. “I’m very, very pleased to have the…er…monster ambassador here with us today.” 

He wafts his hand in your vague direction, never once meeting your gaze. You feel yourself growing ever smaller.

“We gotta talk about monsters, because…they’re here, and we aren’t really sure what to do about them.”

Several murmurs of agreement grumble their way around the table. Expectant pairs of eyes fall on you as you turn towards your father.

“ _At the last meeting, we discussed the possibility of a monster healthcare plan?_ ”

Asgore’s eyes light up as he relays your words to the assembly. The row of men before you sit stony-faced, brows knotting as comprehension dawns on them.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” The king of all humans purses his lips, looking down his nose at the pair of you as though you are something nasty on the sole of his patent leather shoes.

With another thud that rings in your ears, your HP begins to tick down. You finger the cord beneath your collar, closing your fingers around the tiny glass vial that only you can detect.

“If I may speak, Mister President?” Asgore interjects with a respectful dip of his head, horns narrowly avoiding gouging out the eye of the person sitting opposite. “You may not be aware, but during our meetings with the previous administration, it was decided upon unanimously that monsters were to be permitted to enrol on a variety of university courses, particularly those in the medical field. “ 

“How can we allow it, when they have no experience? No normal money to pay for these proposed courses?”

“You would be surprised, I assure you.” His mouth twitches as he speaks, raising his hand enough for all to see as it shimmers green for several moments, bathing the room in soft light.

**[HP fully restored]**

“As you can see, monsters are equipped to heal both their kind and humans. Though, humans would be hard-pressed to achieve the same degree of success on a monster patient. It is vital that monsters receive the same quality of care that humans do, in order to minimise the risk of any falling down.”

Behind your eyelids, a writhing mass of colourless goo and mismatched limbs blocks the way. You and your father shudder in unison. 

_“I know monsters would feel a lot safer if they were able to discuss their health with a monster doctor…come to think of it, some humans would find it preferable, too.”_

“As for the matter of payment.” Asgore’s smile grows sheepish. “I am afraid the current exchange rate eludes me, but I am happy to begin a trust fund for any monsters wishing to pursue a career path in medicine.”

He draws back from the table as the collective consider his words. You offer him a tiny thumbs-up.

The king of all humans opens his mouth to address his colleagues, spreading his undersized hands. Or perhaps they’re ordinary-sized, and you’re just so used to huge, soft paws tucking you in at night.

“We have to ensure the safety of our citizens.” His eyes settle on the hooked claws at the end of your father’s fingers as he drums out an absent-minded tune. “Precautions must be taken.”

Asgore’s rhythm falters. You look at him in alarm. “ _What? What does he mean?_ ”

“Precautions?” your father echoes slowly, trying his best to appear amicable. Beneath the table, his hand moves to rest upon your knee, fur brushing against your frantically fluttering fingers.

“Yes.” The Boss Human replies, voice dripping with condescension. “Look…Say we get a tonne of interest in this hypothetical programme. A ton of your kind enroll, maybe enough to make up the majority. Who’s to say one of them won’t go rogue, and hurt a bunch of humans?”

If your vocal chords would allow it, you know you would be screaming your response. “ _That’s not how it works!” your hands move in a frenzy. “Monsters use magic to communicate! They’d only ever lash out like that if they were confused, or upset, or…if something had hurt them first!_ ”

You can barely see the rest of the table for the tears prickling in your eyes. How has this gone so wrong, so quickly? 

“Miss Ambassador, please do calm down.” A voice rings in your ears. 

You hardly care who’s speaking, only that the sound of it hurts, so, so much.

“Frisk is not going to do anything until you use their correct pronouns.” Asgore replies, sharp enough that he sounds a lot like Toriel.

And at once, a new wave of salt water spills over onto your cheeks. You quiver in your seat, leaning against your father’s immense softness as you finger the stopper on the vial slung around your neck.

The warm scent of cinnamon floods the room, and you breathe it in with a shaking sigh. Beside you, Asgore inhales, misty-eyed, but smiling. 

From deep within, you feel your HP climb back into double digits.

Colour floods your face as you turn to the former king of all monsters with intermittent shuddering breaths. “ _Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to…_ ”

Asgore waves you to a standstill, fingers still faintly green. “There is nothing at all for you to apologise for.” He glances at the assembly, unimpressed. “It seems that we have greatly underestimated the LOVE in this room.”

You may not be able to Check that individual stat yourself, but you’re near certain that anyone, human or monster, would be able to see that this bevy of white men in shadowy suits pose a threat, perhaps one greater than any being you’ve come across on your travels.

“ _Perhaps we shouldn’t have come._ ” Your signs are swift enough that there’s no chance of the congregation discerning any meaning from the movement.

Your father’s brow furrows. He shifts closer, so only you can hear “That is not the child I know.” He observes you in silence for a moment. “Your soul is still bright. Far brighter than any I see around this table. You are enough to remain strong, just as you have for so long in the past.”  
“ _I don’t want to give up, but….all of this just feels so heavy. Like I have the hopes and dreams of every single monster on my shoulders._ ”

“ _It cannot end now!_ ” His whisper tickles your ear. “ _Frisk! Stay determined!_ ”

And despite everything, your mouth stretches into a smile.

You turn your attention back to the assembly, filled with determination. “ _I am sorry, Mr President, but could you please outline some of these precautions you are proposing?_ ”

For the briefest of moments, the king of all humans looks baffled as Asgore interprets your signs. You get the distinct feeling that nobody in his cabinet has thought to question these plans. Or, he simply hasn’t thought this far ahead. You would not be surprised if it was both.

“Yeah…Uh…” he responds with a loud cough, snatching up the piece of paper that one of his advisors passes along the table. “Well, my first idea is very, very good, I think…” he clears his throat, making his voice sound Important and Powerful. “There needs to be a way for us to monitor the monster population. We must have some estimate as to how many of…your kind are living amongst us.”

Your father inclines his head in genuine interest. “Are you suggesting we conduct a census?”

It’s your turn to be surprised. Perhaps this could work-if monsters were included in this…census thing, then it would be far easier to assess and address their needs. Is this idea coming from the same person who, moments ago, had dismissed your friends, your family, as a threat to humans?

“A census is only the first step.” He peers down at his paper, eyes still cold and hard. Something twists and squirms inside you as a thin smile creeps onto his face. “Ideally, I would like to enforce compulsory tagging, for all monsters, so that we may track their movements at all times.”

A cold wave of dread washes over you. You watch Asgore’s face shift into a definite frown of discontent. Upset pulses from his majestic form, but the other occupants of the table pay it no attention. Perhaps they cannot feel it like you can.

“I do not believe,” he speaks gravely as he regards the congregation with wounded eyes. You feel your own misting over in turn. “That this approach would be an effective or respectful method of ensuring the welfare of monsterkind.”

He’s broken out his King Voice again. Several cabinet members are watching in awe, paying very little attention to their own leader.

“You are operating under the assumption that monsters are of no greater intelligence than the creatures you find on the Surface. Your predecessor assured me that this nation would be a safe place in which to integrate my people. I certainly did not expect to face such intolerance from the moment he was no longer in power.”

The Boss Human’s mouth is a ragged line in his face. “I do have some other ideas. Lots of them.”

Asgore raises an eyebrow, still casting his great shadow across the table, over where you sit, feverishly squishing the soft rubber of the toy Moldbygg in an effort to block out the sounds of argument. “I do hope that this next idea shall be a great deal more considerate.”

He leans back in his seat, offering you a surreptitious paw beneath the table as he waits for his counterpart’s response.

“Well…” the man begins, looking rather uncomfortable. “That…mountain that you all came out of…Since you don’t need it any more, I was hoping to develop the land for…human habitation.”

Your father’s voice is soft once more, yet you hear flames crackle beneath his words. “Mr President. I do not suppose you have spent much time, much effort, in researching monster history and culture?”

Underneath his shrivelled tangerine skin, you’re almost certain you see the king of all humans growing red-faced.

“I had a suspicion that would be the case.” He gives his head a slow shake, eyes closed in what looks like despair. “When monsters make up such a small, insignificant minority, why bother to learn anything about the race your kind have oppressed without mercy, without _thought_ , for as long as any human can remember?”

The air fills with smothering shame. Embarrassment sticks, cloying, to the pristine suits on the other side of the table. 

You wonder whether everybody in this room is in complete agreement with the Boss Human. Perhaps he just likes to think that.

“I doubt anyone here would quite understand our attachment to what was decreed our eternal prison.” His voice may be mild as ever, but the words he speaks are sharp as the three crimson prongs that so often appear behind your eyelids when you sleep. “Yet, as time went on, and we adjusted to the endless, endless dark, we were able to carve civilisation from where we were once sentenced to become dust.”

_“It became a Home.”_

“Indeed it did, Frisk.” He glances at you, wearing a soft smile of recollection. “We rebuilt our lives, and, slow as it may have been, we grew to be content enough to bring children into the world, though we knew the Surface to only be a distant memory, fading ever faster as our subjects perished from lack of hope.”

You close your hand around the unopened chocolate bar in your pocket. _“But somebody came.”_

“Somebody came. And for the first time in countless years, hope returned to monsterkind."

His grin drops within a moment 

"This human, on the contrary….they had no hope left. Though they were not entirely comfortable with discussing it with us, to our son, they spoke of…such horrendous things. Horrors inflicted by their own race, their own family, on a curious _child_ , who didn’t always act in the one narrow way that humans thought proper…”

“I always hoped that I would never understand quite what had urged them up the mountain.” he surveys the table with a look of resigned sadness, one you know so well. “But now, seeing how the very highest of human authority treats those who are different from them, I can hardly say I am surprised by the path they chose.”

For a moment, the king of all humans looks as though he is about to speak. But Asgore is quicker.

“No, Mister President. I will not allow monsters to lose the foundations of a society they built for themselves. I shall not let you take away the one place in which a small child felt like they were wanted.”

“Then, what do you propose we should do with it?” the Boss Human splutters, utterly thunderstruck. 

“We should not do anything with it.” He fixes his counterpart with a broad smile. “Mount Ebott shall remain an historical site, under the protection of the ambassador.” He indicates you with a soft hand. You give the king of all humans a little wave. “And for those who need it, it shall be a place of reflection and remembrance, unspoilt by any hands who seek to shape it into something it is not.”

“Who are you to order us about like this?” the Boss Human blurts. None of his cabinet make any move to affirm him. “You’re just a monster!”

“I am a Boss Monster. And once, since long before your time, I was the Mountain King. I would prefer it if you did not force my hand, and we settled this over a cup of tea.”

You ardently rest your head against his arm, running your fingers across the soft fibres of his suit. 

_“Good idea, Dad.”_   


* * *

  
  


Asgore insists on brewing his speciality golden flower tea for everyone in attendance. Whilst this is an ordinary sight whenever you visit his house, the rest of the assembly appear more than a little taken aback. Whether it’s because he identifies as male, or because he’s a bipedal goat/lion creature with fire powers and a massive trident, you’re not certain.

Either way, the thought of breaking convention, right in the heart of the rigidly-defined human world fills you with determination.

As your father works his way around the table, you trace the pattern on your empty cup with your finger. It’s not as pretty or delicate as Asgore’s own tea set, the one patterned with the same petals that scatter the surface of his favoured drink. Still, his standards of grace when combining the ingredients do not slip over something as insignificant as differently-coloured china.

You watch the cabinet with a knowing smile as, one by one, they slowly gather the courage to take a sip from the neatly laid out row of cups and saucers.  
The mists of apprehension clouding their grey faces begins to clear, replaced by wide-eyed surprise that makes them resemble something far closer to humans than the figures of shadow you first perceived them as.

“This is good.” One praises, his voice dropped to a furtive whisper. His neighbour responds with an eager nod. 

The two of them eye up the king of all humans, who sits, stony-faced at the head of the table. He hasn’t touched his tea.

At last, your father reaches you, pouring the last of the tea with a flourish into your cup. You catch his eye, mouth twitching into a smile of gratitude. He ruffles your hair in response, and you cannot help but giggle.

From what seems like light years away, the Boss Human’s piggy eyes snap up from the papers on the table, homing in on you with a gaze that glues you in place, and steals the laughter from your chest.

“I see monsters do not care for manners.” He huffs. “And from a so-called ambassador, too.”

You have a distinct feeling that, were Asgore still holding the teapot, it would be falling to the floor in surprise. 

As it is, he glances over in meek confusion. You’ve seen that look countless times on his son’s face, and it has always resulted in a flurry of furry cheek-squishing. “I am sorry, but I am not quite sure that I understand.”

“Out of everyone here.” He sweeps his arm around the room, almost hitting his closest senators in the face. “Your kid is the only one not to have said ‘Thank you’.”

“Oh.” He turns the exclamation into a breathy laugh. “I assure you, sir. Frisk communicated their appreciation perfectly well from where I am sitting.”

“She could have at least used words, like everyone else.” He scowls over at you. You feel your soul plummeting, as though it’s been hit by a blue attack.

“Perhaps you were not made aware.” Asgore’s voice is still bright, quite apart from the warmth you feel pooling at the tips of his fingers as he strokes your knee. “Frisk is what you humans refer to as autistic. It takes a great deal of effort for _them_ to use spoken language, especially in a tense and unfamiliar environment such as this.”

He looks over at you for a moment. You give him a tiny nod, running your fingers through the fur on his outstretched paw, and squishing each bean-shaped pink pad you encounter. 

“Well, she’s never going to learn how to function like a normal person if you keep….” He waves an airy hand at you, apparently searching for a word. “…enabling these sorts of behaviours.”

His words may sting like tiny white pellets, but you’re determined not to let it show. You look the king of all humans straight in the eye, mimicking the sort of stare that Chara’s been told time and time again makes people uncomfortable. A smile slips onto your face as you begin to flap vigorously, directly in his line of sight.

Asgore raises both hands for him to see, fighting to keep laughter from his voice. “As far as I can see, Mister President, I am not ‘enabling’ anything. Merely encouraging Frisk’s own autonomy and self-expression.” His eyes fall on your awful, awful clothes. “I was not aware that this new regime did not permit children from experiencing the world as...well… _children._ ”

“ _Be yourself._ ” You chime in, swaying from side to side in your seat. “ _No, not like that._ ”

This time, your father does laugh, in the hollow way that Chara does when they’re teetering on the brink of a bad time. You see his solemn eyes, surveying the cabinet one by one. “If it makes you so uncomfortable to see a child expressing themselves, perhaps you may want to re-examine what it is that makes you think this way in the first place.”

“You monsters might not know this.” The Boss Human speaks up at last, still somehow managing to take up the entire room with the dripping sludge of condescension. “But kids like her, they’re not born naturally. It’s all in the vaccines.”

“Vaccines? Are you referring to the protective injections that grant children immunity to life-threatening diseases?” 

"Yep, pharmaceutical companies pump children full of toxic stuff, and it turns normal kids into…that. Biting. Screaming. Head-banging. There’s no hope for them. You know?”

“As a matter of fact, we do indeed know someone who exhibits those traits.” Asgore replies, with a fond smile. “But I would advise you not to spout this rhetoric in front of them. Or to mention that you have never once used Frisk’s preferred pronouns, despite having been corrected on multiple occasions.” 

“With behaviours like that, I doubt he’s high-functioning.” The king of all humans rolls his eyes, and there are several nods of agreement from around the table.

“I am awfully sorry, Frisk.” Your father’s apologetic face is almost enough to make you cry. “But could you please explain to me exactly what this….’high-functioning ‘is?” 

“ _It’s nothing._ ” Your hands move with complete conviction. “ _It was just made up, so we could be put into neat and tidy boxes. People say that if you can speak, and use a computer, then you’re ‘not very autistic’, and then, if you don’t speak, and have self-injurious stims, then that means you’re ‘very autistic.’_ ”

Asgore does not appear to be quite satisfied. “But…what if someone could speak, and had self-injurious stims? Where would they fit in on this line?”

“ _That’s a problem with thinking about ‘the spectrum’ as just a big, long line from ‘low’ to ‘high’. There are so many people who just wouldn’t fit with that idea._ ”

You look up from your hands, more than a little surprised to find several of the assembly gazing at you with rapt attention. It’s a peculiar notion, to be so suddenly visible.  
But you are not going to let this opportunity slip away.

“ _The spectrum idea is a lot more inclusive if we don’t just think of it as a straight line, with people who speak at one end, and people who don’t at the other._ ”

For the first time, one of the Boss Human’s entourage raises a hand to interject, looking more than a little hesitant. “Er…Mx Ambassador…did I get that right?”

You give him a grateful nod, gesturing for him to continue.

“I was just wondering…is there an alternative model we can use to educate people? Only, I have a son with autism, and he doesn’t always fit on a straight line, like you said. I mean, he sometimes has episodes when he’s completely nonverbal and can only communicate in sign language, but other times, we can’t get a word in edgeways for all he tells us about his latest special interest. I’m never sure what to tell people.”

“ _Firstly,_ ” You begin, slowly enough that he might be able to follow. “ _He would most likely appreciate it if you did not refer to him as your ‘son with autism’. If you say he’s autistic, he won’t feel as though such an important part of his identity is being treated as something extra that’s latched onto an otherwise neurotypical person. Also, people might have an easier time understanding his particular traits, if he were to explain them himself. They’ll believe it far more readily if it comes from an inside source._ ”

You see the man’s cheeks flush red, but his voice remains calm and conversational. “Thank you for that advice. I’ll take it on board-I never realised that what I was doing could be that harmful.”

“ _As for an alternative idea for the antiquated spectrum model._ ” You push the Torn Notebook closer to the centre of the table, open on a page filled with a large circle, and two sets of handwriting. “ _My sibling and I were coincidentally discussing it the other day, and we thought it’d be simple to picture a giant pie instead._ ”

Several senators exchange mystified glances. Asgore smiles down at your drawing in bemusement.

“It’s not just an ordinary pie, though. This one has an infinite amount of fillings. Cinnamon, Butterscotch, Chocolate….Snails….” As you name each ingredient, you add a tiny drawing within the circle. “ _It’s magic, too. So, whenever you cut it, you get a slice with a different combination of fillings inside. So no two slices taste quite the same._ ”

“What a lovely extended metaphor.” Your father mumbles, serene. “So, is every autistic person catered for with the magical infinity pie?”

You give him an excitable nod. “ _Say you had a special interest in something like….puzzles, for example. But you often had trouble controlling the volume of your voice, and wearing a particular outfit made you feel really good. There’d be a slice of pie just for you._ ”

“I wonder what flavour it would be?” he hums pensively. You catch and return his knowing wink.

“ _Dinosaur oatmeal, most likely._ ” You disguise your giggle as a business-like cough. “ _Perhaps with a splash of marinara sauce._ ”

“This sibling of yours.” The king of all humans interjects, still floundering in the depths of incomprehension. “You said he can talk?”

“I said _they_ can talk.” You amend, to several well-stifled chuckles from around the cabinet. “ _They talk to me about all sorts of things. Monsters, astrology...botany…knives. Mom says they’re very well-read._ ”

The Boss Human’s face is still crumpled in confusion “If he can talk….and tell you all this…weird stuff, then he must be high-functioning, right?” He glances around the assembly for support. “I mean, this kid is nothing like all those helpless ones, trapped inside their own heads. He must be choosing to hurt himself, just because he thinks it’s cool and trendy. I’ll bet he’s one of those self-diagnosed fakers, too.”

Before you can conjure up an indignant response, Asgore steps in, with shaking words that strike you deep within your soul. 

“ _They are not choosing._ ” He breathes, looking as though he is about to leap up from his seat. “My child never _chose_ anything that happened to them. They deserved far better, and they always will. And that most certainly includes having people in their life that listen, and do not invalidate their experiences, simply because they do not always match up with some outdated system that was devised by humans who haven’t the _faintest idea_ of what it is like to be them.” 

“ _I think we’ve highlighted another problem with the linear spectrum model._ ” You stroke your father’s paw as he regains his composure. “ _No matter where you are perceived to stand, your individual experiences will almost certainly be ignored in some way._ ” 

“If you are supposedly ‘high-functioning’” Asgore makes commendable use of air quotes. “It has been demonstrated to me here that nobody will believe that you encounter any difficulties, and will dismiss you when you say otherwise, because you are ‘not autistic enough’ to have an opinion.”

“ _And the opposite is true for those of us deemed ‘low-functioning’. People make out that our lives are worthless, and nothing but a struggle. But when we try to prove them otherwise, they tell us that we’re ‘too autistic’ for our words to matter._ ”

“This system seems far too selective to be at all helpful.” Asgore muses. Along the table, the sight of a few slow nods of understanding fills you with determination.

“But…” the king of all humans still seems to be struggling. “I’ve been supporting this charity, Autism Speaks, and they say-”

Before you can stop it, an exasperated snarl bursts from your mouth. There’s a bright red shirt in Chara’s wardrobe, telling everybody exactly what they think of that organisation. Were it not for the ridiculous new dress code, you would have proudly worn it to this meeting.

Of course, the conventions of the setting do not permit you from repeating what is written in bold white letters on the front.

“ _They’re wrong._ ” You glare over at the Boss Human, for a moment forgetting all about restraint, and manners, and all the things that never really mattered so much before the man claimed his place at the head of the table. 

“Miss Ambassador.” He leers, ignoring Asgore’s raised eyebrow of disapproval. “At the moment, the only way forward is to try and remove this parasite from our children ourselves.” 

“I highly doubt.” Your father rumbles “That such a venture would be worth investing in.” he gives his counterpart a withering look to watch your own. “Considering that autism is a _neurological condition_ , and cannot be cured.”

But the Boss Human does not seem to hear. “It really is quite simple!” he insists, clapping his tiny hands together in a way that makes your skin crawl. “A good friend of mine has often sworn that after a good beating, his kids were right as rain.”

In an instant, you find yourself recoiling in your seat.  
Somewhere far away from this grey room, a door at the back of your mind bursts open, and a voice that does not belong to you cries out in alarm.

  
  


* * *

_A figure stands in your doorway, with a face made of nothing but crawling shadows, and the sharp edges of a mouth pulled wide by fishhooks. Little porcelain pieces of a china doll smile._

_The name that reaches your ears is harsh and foreign, one you’ve scribbled over in wet red ink. Yet still, it makes your stomach churn with just how wrong it sounds, bouncing off every wall of your box-shaped room._

_You have no choice but to look up from the red-streaked hands cradling your sketchbook against your chest. But you cannot put it down, not when it stoppers you up, keeps you from leaking all of your toxic nothingness across everything that comes close, the thick black bile that pools around your feet with every step, spoiling and ruining, because that is the only thing it is good for._

_The walls may be spotted with blinding white flares, but it’s far less painful to squint at them than to drag your eyes to meet the gaze of the hollow man._

_“What is this filth?” One arm reaches into the ever-shrinking safe space, so fast that you’re flattening yourself against the wall before the thought even crosses your mind._

_But his hand is not the right shape for swatting, foolish child. No, his fingers are clenched around a jacket, nails pressing deep, deep into soft...leather, not flesh. There is a book within his grasp, not you._

_You know where it has come from, of course. It was worth every moment you spent, finishing just one more page, memorising one more diagram. He has no idea. You doubt he has ever been in a library in his life. When the time comes, that will only be his loss._

_It is happening again. You begin to laugh, and the sound floods your ears, floods the room. It shakes you, setting your mouth wide and your eyes alight. You watch his torn face grow more ragged, cackling with every last grotesque molecule of your freakish body._

_“I will not have any daughter of mine reading such revolting material.” He gathers a handful of pages in his fist, and yanks them from the binding. You watch the yellowed paper fall onto your floor. Like leaves, like flower petals._

_“Then it is lucky for you, Father.” You gasp out, swiping away the fat tears from your eyelashes. “That I am not your daughter.”_

_For a moment, your words freeze him to the spot. In the safety of your room, you rock back and forth on the balls of your feet, staring at the tattered, fragmented words he’s spilled all over the carpet._

_As though someone has pressed fast-forward, he lunges forward out of nowhere, locking your wrists together within a hand that feels like naked flames against your skin._

_“What did we do to deserve a monster in our midst?” his voice rings close to your ear, reaching you loud as a whisper against the seething agony of another person’s flesh touching yours._

_You cannot respond with anything but a scream, loud and endless and filled with hurt, even as you know everybody is long past hearing. Why should they pay any attention to the hellspawn’s pain?_

_He silences you with a hand across your mouth, snarling words you do not recognise. Your body trembles in protest, stripped of the last shreds of dignity you had buried beneath your very worst self._

_He is far too close for you to flee. And with the sickening sandpaper of skin pressed against your lips, you have no means of ACTing._

_There is no choice in the matter. You have to FIGHT._

_You lash out with every inch of yourself that is not restrained. Your legs flail against the empty air as he hauls you from your own room. A tiny sob breaks free as he tramples across your sketchbook, sent sprawling across the ground by his chaotic weight thundering against you._

_His grip slides away from your jaws the moment you attempt to catch his thick fingers between your teeth. You can hardly blame yourself for not making a single mark against his needle-sharp hide. After all, it is far more difficult to calculate the force necessary to break the skin of somebody who is not yourself._

_With a vestigial cry, you claw at your mouth, ridding yourself of all that remains of the flavour of physical contact. It is a relief when your lip splits, and your tongue is awash with a familiar taste._

_You have mere moments to savour the contentment that comes with ascribing to such a practiced routine, before his hands seize hold of your hair._

_You are not about to tell him how much of a relief it would be if he were to pull it out, strand by stand. How much you have always despised the way it grows like knotweed down your back. You will continue to let him think that he is causing great anguish to the daughter he never had._

_The hallway mirror gleams as he yanks you to stand in front of it. Perfect, unbroken. You know the picture held within its golden flower frame will never tell you lies._

_“What do you see?” he prompts, wrenching your face to stare right into the eyes of the reflected child beside his mirrored self._

_The white mask, seeping strands of blood tinted black by numbness. The crescent ever smiling, between painted cheeks. Hair sliced clean above the shoulders, fringe swept away from a pair of nightmare eyes._

_You smile at the child, neither a daughter, nor a son, and reach over to trace their upturned lips._

_“It’s me, Chara.”_

_Several silent moments drag by before you realise your mistake._

_Beside you, there’s a sharp intake of breath._

_You begin to turn to towards him, begin to correct your thoughtless error. But it only takes the sting of fingers tightening around your neck for you to know it to be far too late._

_“Wrong!” his voice fills your head with a jagged spear of lightning. Clenched fingers obscure the broad grin daubed across your reflection’s throat. “What kind of retard doesn’t know her own name?”_

_“I answer to the name you chose no longer, Father.” You fight to inhale a steadying breath. “Because I am not a girl.”_

_“So, not only are you a psychotic little retard, but a filthy tranny, too?”_

_Beneath his grasp, you feel your body shaking. Your hands dart up in an unconscious movement to shield your ears. But he does not stop. He never stops._

_“I don’t know what we ever did to deserve the rotten plague that you are, but it’s about time you stop thinking you are anything special. You are nothing, do you hear me? Nothing but a changeling, a demon. Your mother and I will find a way to remove this foul possession from your head, once and for all. You mark my words.”_

_With a vicious jerk of your neck, you turn your gaze upon him, eyes bright, and let the choking emptiness pour out, over your pockmarked skin. “Consider your words marked.”_

_It is only after your response settles that you reconsider whether this was the correct thing to say._

_You do not have to dwell on it for very long._

_Your father slams your head against the glass, until the mirror is nothing but splinters, and the vista beyond is painted with red._ __

  
  


* * *

“…Frisk? Please tell me, what is wrong?” Your father’s voice is gentle as cotton wool against your ears.

You raise your head from where it lies between your arms. The two of you are sat, not in the conference room, but beside the rows of swaying flowers on the lawn.

Asgore may be a haze of shapes in front of your eyes, but when you clutch his chest, you hear the thrum of his heart beneath your fingers.

Your hands shake, as though they have not been used in years. “ _Bad man. Need to go home._ ”

He looks back towards the Boss Human’s house with a reluctant sigh. “If home is where you want to go, my child,” he rises to his great height, drawing you close to him once more. “Then that is where I shall take you.”

“ _But…The conference… I messed up, didn’t I? What if they don’t let us come back, or they start…making new laws without discussing them with us, or…_

He stills your frantic hands with a warm paw. “I assure you, Frisk. You were a truly admirable spokesperson, not just for monsterkind, but for your own neurotype. I am certain that you have given the assembly a lot to consider.”

_“…Are you sure we can just leave like this? Won’t they start asking questions?_ ”

“I shall inform the congregation that we were called away by an emergency at home.” He gives you a sheepish grin. “And I am sure we can count on those siblings of yours to create just the sort of emergency we need.” 

You aren’t sure whether he feels your mouth twitch into a watery smile against his chest, so you craft some clumsy signs.

“ _You’re the best dad we’ve ever had._ ”

He glances down at you, his gaze forlorn. It is only after he has begun to walk that he speaks again.

“I do so wish that this was not the case.”

  


  
  


* * *

  
  


  
By the time your father’s house comes into view, you have already freed yourself from the throttling confines of your shirt’s collar. 

He sets you down on the garden path with such gentleness, and yet your legs still quiver without the steeling pressure of his hands to support you. You grip a nearby fence post, pushing yourself ever closer to the butter yellow front door.

“Your HP has fallen very low, my child.” Asgore murmurs in passing as he slides the key into the look. “I would advise against any sort of strenuous play until it has been restored.”

Your hands are far too clammy to be of any use. The nod you respond with instead sends an unforeseen wave of nausea coursing through you.

You shuffle through the quiet hallway, barely hearing the door closing behind you. You cannot bring yourself to look into the mirror on the wall as you pass.

“I shall go and inform a member of the president’s staff of the situation.” The weight of his paw brushes against your shoulder for the briefest of moments. “Please do get some rest now, Frisk. If you find yourself without everything you need, then I urge you to ask Chara or Asriel to retrieve it for you.”

You do as you are told, and drift into the living room. 

Chara sits in their usual position, hunched over a sketchbook, and chewing a rubber-topped pencil. Of course, it is not the same one as you…saw? Felt? But it seems they deem it an acceptable replacement.

You attempt a smile in their direction, but the stretching hurts your face.

“You’re back.” They observe, closing their book with a thud that’s rough against your ears. “Azzy and I made slime. There’s some in the kitchen if you want to…”

Their words fade away as you give them a vague sort of nod, and take a few staggering steps over to the sofa. 

You press your face against the cushions, surrounding yourself in nothing but dark and quiet.

“I get the feeling.” There’s a soft sound as your sibling edges closer to where you are crumpled. “That something significant happened during your meeting, or else you would not be home early.”

They do not wait for a response, but you feel their fingers scuttling around in your pocket.

“And you didn’t eat the chocolate I gave you?” their dismay is near unbearable to listen to. “I promise I didn’t put anything in it. You know I would never do that to my favourite human, right, Frisk?”

You feel an aura of guilt pulsing from their body like a bright light. It isn’t fair. They shouldn’t have to wallow in dark thoughts like this when they’ve done nothing to deserve it.

You raise your head, taking in how much softer they appear right in front of you. Chara cannot abide lies. It is lucky that telling them is not one of your strengths.

“ _Bad man._ ” Your hands still feel like lead, but you try your hardest.

“We already knew he was a foul, slimy ball of grease.” They reply, with a breathy sort of laugh. “That’s no reason to cry. Save your tears for someone who matters.”

“ _Not just bad._ ” You gnaw your lip, feeling truly dreadful. “ _Hollow man._ ”

They stiffen, eyes blown wide in an instant. “ _What?_ ”

“ _I…I don’t know what happened._ ” You confess, transfixed by the twitching of their fingers. “ _But…the Boss Human….he said something….something nasty, and…I saw…I felt…_ ” you can’t even look at them anymore. “ _There was a mirror…_ ”

“ _Fuck._ ” Chara hisses, staring down at the stark white slices that decorate their hands, without any light in their eyes. You can scarcely imagine what is going through their head.

For a moment, their nails inch closer to the welts across their knuckles. Ragged breaths tear themselves one by one from the depths of their chest. In an instant, you are brimming with all the energy you need to race off in search of Asriel.

But then, their scrabbling fingers bunch up in the fibres of their jumper. The little blisters that stretch across their hands flush white. They clench a fist around the locket at their throat, rocking back and forth in time with every heaving inhalation of clean, plant-scented air.

“ _Chara…you don’t have to hide from me, remember? You’re allowed to say, if you’re feeling too bad to do anything but hurt._ ”

“M’ fine.” They rasp, tugging at a strand of hair that’s fallen in their eyes and scowling at the floor. “Just got a bit lost, is all.” 

“ _I…I didn’t mean to…_ ” you begin, but they hold up a hand.

“You did not deserve to have to sit through that.” Their voice is brittle, the quiet, clipped tone they try to hide behind. They aren’t looking at you any longer, using their fringe as a barrier between the two of you.

“ _You didn’t deserve to live through it._ ” 

They do not seem to have an answer. You sit beside them in silence, aching to wrap your arms around all the places it hurts the most.

Quite suddenly, they place their hands upon your shoulders, holding you at arm’s length.

“Listen. We will get through this, Frisk. You hear me? We’ll get through this together, just like we always have done.”

“ _Despite everything?_ ”

They inhale sharply, smiling around a breath of air that trembles. “Indeed.”

With timorous caution, they hold a flat palm out to rest against yours. In a tone of surprise far removed from the sparkling droplets clinging to their eyelashes, they whisper words you’ve heard but once before.

“ _Despite everything, it’s still you._ ” 

Neither one of you are quite sure how to end the stillness and silence that follows. Thankfully, your brother chooses this very moment to canter in, claws skittering on the floor.

“Hey, Chara, did you hear the door? That must mean Dad and Frisk are…”

He stops short, ears flopping over to one side as he inclines his head.in your direction.

“Oh, wow…um…are you two…okay?”

You give him your best smile. “We will be.” Chara replies. “Once you’ve found some blankets. Oh, and the comic, too.”

Asriel’s eyes shine with excitement. “Are we having some sort of pillow fort day?”

“That, my dear Azzy, is exactly what we are doing. Er…just as long as Frisk is still in the mood to watch the space rocks cartoon with us.”

You raise an incredulous eyebrow. “ _When have I ever_ not _been in the mood for space rocks?_ ” 

“Golly.” Your brother already has one foot out of the door. “We never have pillow fort days anymore.”

He’s halfway down the hall before Chara leaps up from their seat to bellow further instructions.

“And get Frisk’s jumper while you’re at it, will you? Just looking at them in that businesswear is making me uncomfortable.”

  


  


* * *

  
  


“You have to make his horns _bigger._ ” Asriel pouts at your half-finished sketch. “The God of Hyperdeath strikes fear into the hearts of every foe he meets. He’s much more threatening than _that_.”

You ruffle the tufts of fur on your brother’s remarkably unthreatening head. He’s sandwiched between you and Chara in your newly-constructed fort, musing over what shade of luminescent green to colour the Radioactive Factory of Doom with. 

“I still think he says ‘Tch…’ too many times.” Chara mutters, transferring their attention from their phone to the rough script Asriel’s written out for their critique. “How are people going to take the guy seriously when he talks like a cardboard cut-out anime villain?”

“But he’s _way_ cooler than any of those characters.” He insists, with a slight pink tinge to his cheeks. “Because he has all the best weapons in the world to scare people off with. And he’s really good, and is friends with everyone, and he never, _ever_ cries.”

You tune out the sound of bickering beside you, taking a moment to revel in the feelings of magenta and periwinkle against your skin, restored at last to their proper places. 

Your hand wanders to extract your own phone from beneath a pile of cushions, turning it on without much thought. Perhaps thumbing through some photos will keep you distracted.

Instead, your inbox catches your eye. The number beside the little envelope icon climbs higher and higher with every passing moment.

You catch Chara smirking from over your brother’s shoulder. They watch you tap it open with undisguised eagerness.

**Sent to: Family  
Frisk is having a Bad Time. Send encouragement? =)**

And within that same minute, the group chat has been flooded with response after response. You lean closer, hoping nobody will catch the emotion on your face as you read:

**HEY! THERE’S NO TIME FOR BEING MISERABLE, KID! YOU HAVE TO KEEP FIGHTING THE CORRUPT HUMAN GOVERNMENT! YOU’RE DOING SUCH A GREAT JOB! :K**

**_She’s right, darling. You’re an utter star, doing all of this for us. Of course, I’d be only too happy to give you a few pointers on how to make the best impression <3_ **

_….i think they’re just fine how they are…um…it’s good that you’re always yourself….even if you don’t like yourself right now…  
…ooh nooo, i made myself sad….i hope I didn’t make you even sadder… 0|0_

Hey, um…it’s…okay that you feel like this sometimes? I mean, er…you do a lot of pretty heavy stuff, and that has to be hard to talk about with people who probably don’t get it, right? But….you’d be surprised how many people around you are willing to listen? Of course, you don’t have to tell them absolutely everything…but just letting people know that you aren’t okay 100% of the time can really take some pressure off you…so, um…yeah… O-O

HUMAN! IF YOU EVER FEEL DOWN, THEN JUST REMEMBER HOW GREAT YOU ARE! REMEMBER HOW QUICK YOU WERE TO PARTAKE IN OUR JAPES, DESPITE HOW MANY OF US WERE OUT TO CAPTURE YOU! AND ALSO, REMEMBER THAT I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, SHALL ALWAYS CONSIDER YOU, THE ALMOST-AS-GREAT FRISK, TO BE MY FRIEND! :V

he’s right, kid. everybody close to you is here because you decided they would be. i reckon that makes you pretty decent.  
have you asked your brother if he’s still rooting for you?  
on second thoughts, don’t do that. it’ll probably get his goat :D

You stifle a laugh behind your hand, scrolling swiftly downwards to the final text. 

_My child, I do not know what has been done to make you feel this way (I do have a feeling that a long talk with your father will be in order). But I hope it is evident to you that you are loved, and always will be loved, by so many monsters, that the small number of humans who do not love you pales into insignificance._

_ If that does not make you feel entirely better, then I hope the promise of a pie with no snails to speak of when the three of you come back to my house shall inspire your will to carry on.  
But perhaps we should keep that a small secret between us, yes?  
Love from Toriel ]:-) _

* * *

* * *

  
  


The sight of so many of your friends, your family showing you support fills you with determination…but mostly tears.

You set the phone back down on the soft floor of the fort, scrubbing your face clean of any stray salt water before your siblings notice.

Asriel is still burbling away about the God of Hyperdeath’s sprawling and complicated backstory. You’re only paying it half an ear of attention.

“And then, he goes and blasts all the bad men away with his Hyper Goner- you know, the giant rainbow laser beam that can destroy anything?-so that the people he loves will never get hurt anymore.”

Chara looks as though they are about to interject, but your hands are quicker.

_“I like that part. We can do that page next.”_

“You’re back with us, are you?” your sibling grins, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t waste all the waterworks, Frisk. We’re going to watch some space rocks now, so you’ll certainly need them.”

Trust them to notice everything. You give them a minute dip of your head, just as they do to express gratitude. They smile at you from across the den, warm and soft as the blankets that surround them. 

“Oh _no_.” Asriel buries his face in his hands as Chara retrieves his tablet. “I don’t want to watch any episodes that make me cry.”

“Well, that rules out half the series, then.” they stick out their tongue. “What about the musical episode? That’s the best one, right?”

“ _Didn’t_ you _cry at that one?_ ” you enquire, as innocently as you are able to whilst wearing a devilish smirk.

Chara swats at you with a cushion. “I didn’t cry nearly as much as _you_ did.” 

“We should make a graph of tears.” Your brother suggests, already drawing out a pair of perpendicular lines. “Whoever cries the most during this episode gets to pick the next one…and they get the chocolate in Frisk’s pocket.”

“Agreed.” They respond in an instant, blinking rapidly. 

You give him a thumbs-up, leaning towards the screen. 

With a swipe of his paw, Asriel starts the episode. 

The three of you shift closer together, mouthing along in unison as the title theme begins to play.


End file.
